


How (Not) to Make a Soufflé

by bringmethemilk



Category: MasterChef (TV) RPF
Genre: Also I hate myself, Am I on crack?, Basically, Choking, Dark Fantasy, Doesn't make any sense, Don't Judge Me, F/M, Fetish, Food Kink, Food Porn, Graphic Description, Humiliation, I Tried, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Non-Consensual Spanking, Object Insertion, Older Man/Younger Woman, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Humiliation, Public Sex, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sex, Smut, Soufflés, Spanking, Verbal Abuse, Verbal Humiliation, and that's on that, and they aren't good, best things: food & sex, but alas, but its fine, don't ask me what i got against souffles, god i'm so horny, gordon b horny, gordon ramsay is sexy as fuck, i have fantasies, i wish i could say i was drunk, i'm just fucking horny, nonconsent, quite possibly, we're fine here, you're welcome skyler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-07 23:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20825891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bringmethemilk/pseuds/bringmethemilk
Summary: As a contestant on Masterchef, there's no worse feeling than the almighty wrath of Gordon Ramsay.don't read unless u are also That Kinda Kinky





	How (Not) to Make a Soufflé

**Author's Note:**

> sorry

I hadn’t made a soufflé in about three years. I hadn’t needed to practice soufflés. I used to make them all the time before I grew sick of them. But here I was, ruined by my arrogance.

Gordon Ramsay seethed in front of me, commanding the room into his submission with a single scowl. Thick veins bulged from his neck.

“Do you know who I am?” He said after a scathing pause.

I didn’t answer. My eyes fixed on the pallid clump on the floor, where Ramsay had deemed my dish unworthy of swallowing.

“Just because you’re one of the youngest here, you think you can get off presenting this shit right to my face?”

“Usually since I bake often, I thought I’d be fine with soufflés, because I used to bake them all the time, so they’ve always been good—“

“Are you giving me attitude?” he asked, stunned. His eyes clouded dangerously.

Since I was a child, I knew I wanted to be a chef. World-famous. Enjoying luxuries others could hardly dream of. I’d watched Gordon Ramsay for years. Never once did I imagine, in all these dreams, that I’d be on the receiving end of my idol’s hellish stare. I faltered, blood simmering under my face. My limp soufflé drooped sadly in its dull ramekin. Drained of color and warmth, it sat on the small table, accused of the most deplorable crimes. I couldn’t think. Tears surged to the corners of my eyes, fighting to squeeze through.

“Let’s start with an easy one. Maybe you can get that. Where are you right now?”

“The Masterchef kitchen,” I choked out. Twenty-two pairs of eyes raked over me like searing coals.

“Right. You’re in the Masterchef kitchen,” said Chef Ramsay, looking down incredulously and pressing his palms together. “So why the hell are you here?”

“I’m a chef.”

“No. I’m a chef.” He jabbed a finger at his chest. “I’m Gordon Fucking Ramsay. My nan has more right to call herself a chef, and she’s dead. You are a fucking disgrace,” said Ramsay, punctuating his words with a large index finger.

I couldn’t help it. Hot tears mingled with a boiling rage inside me, the need to fight and save my dignity. “It was this one try, and it would have been good if the ramekin had been shallower—“

“You’re going to blame the fact that you’re a failure on the fucking ramekin?” Ramsay’s mouth gaped in rabid shock. He nearly dropped the silver fork in his hand.

“All due respect, chef—“

“The next thing that comes out of that shitty mouth of yours had better be the truth. Why don’t you tell me the truth about how worthless you are? Why don’t you tell me, for the benefit of all of us,” he threw out his arms, “why you thought this cup of puke would be better to serve than a raw fucking plate?”

“I worked hard—“

“You didn’t even fucking cook it,” he shouted. “How dare you step inside this kitchen with that kind of attitude. You don’t deserve a fucking apron. Ted Bundy would wear that thing better than you,” he spat.

My entire body burned. It was hot in the stage lights. Ramsay worked a hand through his straw-colored hair, impossibly vexed.

“Ugly piece of shit,” he muttered. I flinched as he whipped the fork threateningly through the air. “Take that thing off. You’re a fucking disgrace.”

I balked. The other judges stood behind him, having not yet tasted my dish. Moreover, I was the first to present.

“You’re the first. And I need to make an example of you.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t fucking speak to me,” Chef Ramsay hissed. He stepped forward, stroking his arm, the muscles rippling with malice under his fitted blazer.

His fingers closed around my throat. Unrelentingly tight, he crushed my neck with his huge hand. Ramsay’s other hand reached down to the string of my apron, where it framed my collarbone. In one swift motion, he tore it off. I yelped as the friction sliced my fragile skin.

The director motioned wildly with his hand. Cut the camera, she mouthed. It was clear that Ramsay had gone mad.

“Cut that camera and you’re fired,” said Chef Ramsay simply. Without a single glance to the side. His gaze never once wavered. The cameraman flicked his eyes fearfully and stood still. Everyone in the room stood still, afraid to breathe.

I tried to free myself, but each clawing at his wrists only served to infuriate him, making him squeeze ever harder. My vision blurred.

“Look at this specimen.” I heard his deep laugh. Without warning, his hands fell away and I stumbled back, clutching my chest. Trying to catch my breath, I heard the tinkering of glass and a familiar wet suction. Chef Ramsay’s back was turned to me. He spun around, one hand filled with sloppy soufflé.

Before I could register what he was about to do, Ramsay’s large hand smushed the failed soufflé through my parted lips. His other hand braced the back of my head, the doubled pressure rendering me entirely helpless. As much as I choked and spat, whipping my pounding head, he persisted. It tasted like flavorless piss. I couldn’t believe I’d presented Gordon Ramsay himself with what had to be the worst thing I’d ever cooked.

“You call that a soufflé? It’s so sunk, James Cameron wants to make a goddamned film about it.”

He drew back. Raucous laughter ricocheted off the tall ceilings. Behind Gordon’s devilish grin, Graham’s lips quivered in fear. He glanced anxiously around, to the crew and to Joe—who was always so sophisticated, poised to deliver any scathing criticism. Now the scowl wiped from his face, replaced with a rare state of shock. But he, too, stood still. Someone had to do something.

But no one did anything. Nobody tried to stop him. Why is nobody trying to stop him? I thought. Sweat dripped down my face and legs, my damp flesh trembling with anticipation.  
The fabric of my shirt growled low as Chef Ramsay tore it open. I cringed at the gasps of the other contestants. He grabbed my sides and spun me around, bracing me at the neck so I wouldn’t fall. I saw their faces through my tears, lined up at the helm of the kitchen, watching with varying degrees of disgust and shock at the scene before them. I looked down, face hot and dripping with clumps of soufflé.

Gordon delivered a sharp blow across my face. “Look at them,” he sneered, fisting my chin and directing it to my appalled audience. He whispered in my ear, soft and cold, his dark assurance traveling straight to my bones: “This is what happens when you disrespect my kitchen.”

He tore down my pants and underwear down in one smooth jerk. I tried to cover myself, but it was impossible. Gordon pushed me forward, to the lip of the stage, the lights beating down on my flushed body. Some of the contestants avoided looking upward, and some watched with horrified arousal. Two men began to rub the growing bulges in their pants, and one woman squeezed her legs shut, blushing madly. All of them shifted restlessly in their white aprons, terrified to move an inch.

“Please,” I tried to say, but it caught in my throat. I wanted to take it all back. I wanted desperately, lifelessly, to have given up on my dream before it had a chance to destroy me. And there was some revolting part of me that drank in the hatred, the disgust, the mocking stares, and reveled in it. It fueled a dark, unforgivable thing inside me, interlocked with my groin.

Gordon stepped back. Rummaged inside the table, hidden from view. He emerged with a large metal spatula with a smooth rubber handle. Nobody is going to save me, I thought with a muffled sob.

He looked positively mad. His immaculate, tailored blazer wouldn’t lay right. It was crooked, one button unhitched, the sleeves dipped with bland soufflé.

“On your knees,” said Ramsay. He wasn’t kidding. No other option. I dropped slowly, shakily to my knees. I cried out as the bottom of his shoe pressed into my back, knocking me forward. I knelt on all fours like a dog, facing the kitchen. The imprint of his sole burned like a cattle brand.

“Now, every time I hit you, you’re going to say, ‘Yes, chef’.”

I nodded. The room was silent save for my uneven breath. My arse stung as his hand collided with my soft flesh.

“What was that?” he growled, leaning toward me. Light hair teased the outline of my ear. Hot breath simmered on my bare skin.

“Yes, chef,” I half-moaned in his ear.

“You’re not allowed to get off on this.”

“Yes, chef.”

The sharp slap of skin sounded through the massive room like a fire alarm. Cameras tracked my every expression, penetrating every inch of my body, broadcasting my shame to the screens outside. I couldn’t help but count each pair of eyes that watched me, as I fell into irrevocable ruin.

“Yes, chef.”

“There’s not nearly enough milk in this thing.” Ramsay was talking about the soufflé again. I wanted to forget it. But—smack!

“Yes, chef,” I moaned.

Hoping he wouldn’t smell the lust drifting off my skin, I read years of untempered fury in the lines of his face. It was smooth and rugged, cool and angry. I couldn’t make sense of it. The longer I looked at him, the hotter I got. He touched my chest, working the pale flesh, squeezing at anything he could. He tore at my nipples, pulling and jerking every which way.

“You fucking cow. You like that, yeah?” scoffed Ramsay, tightening his iron grip. “Like when I milk you like the cow you are?”

“Yes, chef,” I breathed.

“I can’t fucking hear you, you fucking pond scum?”

“Yes, chef! Fuck, I love it!” I did. I hated that.

“God, what a whore,” Ramsay laughed incredulously, looking around. “Spread your fucking legs for them. Come on. I want everyone to see.” He placed a hand on my chest and pushed, hard. I fell back on my arse, blushing as he grabbed at my knee.

“Come on“—he ripped my legs apart—“it’s nothing worth hiding, anyway.”

Chef Ramsay retrieved the spatula and reared back. I tried to scoot out of his reach, but he dug his manicured fingernails into my knee. The hard metal surface hit my cunt, and I screamed. Tears forced their way out of my eyes. My breath grew more ragged, more desperate, and somehow all the air in the room wouldn’t fill my lungs.

“No—!"

He hit me again. I flinched. He hit me again. I cried harder. It went on—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten blows. My hole dripped with betrayal, onto the filthy floor. I didn’t notice Ramsay rise and fill his palm with the remaining soufflé, and kneel back on the floor. I didn’t see his arm extend, or his knowing grin, or the chasms of sweat forming in the wrinkles of his face. I only felt the cold pressure of his hand on my clit, rubbing hard, the freezing, viscous sludge mingling with my natural wetness. I moaned as he massaged it roughly, tugging at my swollen sex, gushing with want. I surrendered to him completely, thrusting against his long, strong fingers, gasping at the hardness of his gold wedding ring.

Two slick fingers pushed through my labia, into the glossy opening. Ramsay built an even rhythm, in, out, in, out, gathering more and more soufflé batter until it spilled from my hole.  
“This all that soufflé is good for?” he sneered. “You’re pathetic.”

Chef Ramsay took away his fingers, shaking off the batter with disgust. He took the spatula from where it lay on the floor. Its handle was cylindrical and huge. I watched with wide, fearful eyes, while something stirred just below my stomach. Gordon Ramsay ran his fingers along the black handle, absorbing my pain with a calculating gaze. He grasped its thick, wet shaft and grasped my throat with one hand, leaning over my body. He parted my labia with the metal plate, exposing the creamy mess.

“Now that looks delicious,” he said. “Come on, now. Look at that. What are we going to do about you?” He prodded my sensitive clit with the hard edge, and I shook violently. He took his powerful hand off my throat. Switching his grip, I stared at the thick handle as it lined up with my slit, and shut my eyes.

The handle penetrated me slowly, each inch inciting sparks of pain. I twitched and struggled as he drew it out, and pushed in again. Each thrust brushed against my clit, leaving me gasping heavily. He fucked me with the handle of the spatula, harder and harder until I couldn’t catch my breath, drawing me right on the edge. I wanted it so bad, to close that terrible distance, to take that giant, ecstatic leap.

“Oh, my God, look at that! Are you coming right now, you fucking whore?”

“Look at this wet cunt. How’s it feel?” He was laughing again. I was crying, from the pain and the shame and the pleasing roar. It was delicious, it swallowed each of my senses. Until only the sensational thrill of that firm handle brought me into a realm of untapped desire, unhinged in that single perfect moment. I screamed as I came, and he only fucked me harder.

He fucked me through my orgasm, riding the waves that diminished into a primal pain, sending me thrashing about and pleading incoherently for release.

“Please take it out,” I gasped. My sensitive flesh gushed, drained from orgasm, but he wouldn’t stop. I was crying still, and harder now, while the handle pierced me with its sharp body.

It hurt until it felt heavenly. Pain made room for pleasure. I hated it.

“You don’t deserve a spot in this kitchen. You certainly don’t deserve to come.”

“It’s disgusting to touch you,” he assured me. I nodded, desperate for more.

“I know, chef. I won’t cook anymore,” I swore, and I meant it. At that moment, I meant it with all my being. “Please, sir, can I come—please, chef…”

“Come, you filthy prick. Look at this bitch come!”

This time I was wild. I seized against him like an animal. Bucked my head off the floor. The fire at the base of my stomach grew until it froze, amplified by a million. I screamed like I was dying. The wet slap of flesh echoed through the room. I thought it was gunfire. My body was so hot, I thought I was cold. Parted slightly, my lips formed a multitude of shapes, wide and tight, teeth clamped together. 

It felt so good, I thought I must have died. But I came to, the hard pressure leaving my body, connected with a warm rope of fluid.

Slowly, I reached out, feeling around, my shaking hand coming to rest on Chef Ramsay’s hard bulge, protruding through his tailored slacks. Expensive. Real stretch-wool. They were smeared with white batter.

What a shame, I thought, and prepared for a booming voice to shake the room.


End file.
